Peter froze.

The accusation hung heavy in the air, thick and suffocating, louder than any scream could have been. The rain outside tapped impatiently against the window, as if waiting for his response. He forced a chuckle, but it came out wrong—too high-pitched, too shaky.

“What—me? A traitor?” He scoffed, shifting from foot to foot. “That’s ridiculous.”

{{user}} didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared at him with something sharp in their gaze, something that made his stomach churn. “I used to think so too.” Their voice was quiet, almost gentle. “But then I started paying attention.”

Peter swallowed. “To what?”

“The way you avoid certain conversations. The way you flinch when James talks about the Order. How you don’t meet my eyes anymore.” They stepped closer, their voice dropping. “I know, Peter.”

The denial was on the tip of his tongue. A lie, a laugh, some excuse—he could still salvage this, couldn’t he? But then he looked at them, really looked at them, and for a split second, something inside him cracked. Because they weren’t just accusing him. They looked hurt.

He turned away, hands clenched into fists. “You don’t understand.”

“Then make me understand.”

Peter exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I never had a choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” {{user}} shot back.